Cathryn Parry - Out of His League

Checking her watch, she headed into the underground tunnel that led to Wellness Hospital, then felt a flash of cold that made her skin prickle. Jogging ahead, she rubbed her arms and went inside to the main lobby.

She was still breathing heavily when the receptionist stopped her. “Dr. LaValley! Your department called down looking for you.”

Elizabeth felt at her waist, but she’d forgotten her beeper. “What’s wrong?”

“Your sister is upstairs.”

“My sister? Are you sure?”

“That’s what they said.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. All the goodwill and euphoria slipped away. The panicky, unsafe, confusing world she’d escaped was colliding with the orderly, private, secure world she’d created for herself as an adult.

She hurried for the elevator, wondering if something was wrong with their mother again.

A fall, a blackout, an arrest. Which one would it be this time?

That was the only reason she could think of for Ashley to contact her. Either way, Elizabeth had no choice but to see her sister.

* * *

JON FARELL SAT beside his agent’s daughter in the waiting room. The hospital had cleared out a private room for him, thankfully.

Not that he didn’t love signing autographs. Under regular circumstances, he could interact with people all day. As a pitcher with the New England Captains, he made it a point to hang out by the bullpen before home games, making himself available for any kid with a pen and a slip of paper. And why shouldn’t he? He was living the dream life—pro athlete for a big-market team, a local guy made good.

Everybody in the region knew the Captains, and most rooted for them, as well. Even this morning, strolling through the hospital before elective surgery, he’d noticed half the people waiting wore blue Captains caps with the distinctive “C” logo. Jon had been mobbed when he and Brooke had first shown up in the admitting area. Despite being on a food-and-drink fast since midnight, with nothing in his stomach and worry on his mind, Jon had signed a few autographs before a nurse took pity on him and hustled him into the empty examination room.

Jon scratched his right hand. He’d gotten used to the throbbing. Thankfully, it was his nonpitching hand.

But still...

It might be malignant.

That one, offhand comment from the doctor had shaken him to his core and thrown him off stride. Still did.

What would Jon do if it was cancer?

Do. Not. Go. There.

Mom was twenty-eight when she died of cancer. Your age now.

Jon swallowed, tried to keep his face a mask.

Next to him, Brooke tapped away on her smartphone. He hadn’t told her about the cancer part of the consultation. Hadn’t told anybody, except for Max, Brooke’s father and Jon’s agent since he’d been a high school kid drafted in the fourth round.

Where the hell was Max, anyway? Why had he sent his daughter in his place?

Brooke glanced up and smiled at him. She’d been flirty and full of attention toward him, and that had set Jon on edge. The only thing he wanted to talk to her about was her father, and that was the one topic she’d been closemouthed about since picking Jon up at his apartment. “Dad’s busy” had been all he could get out of her on the subject, though she’d chatted nonstop about baseball and Jon’s chance at a contract, which unnerved him. She wasn’t his agent; her father was.

“You can head out now,” he told Brooke. “Grab some breakfast. I’ll have the nurses call you when I’m out of surgery.”

She stood and stretched. “I shouldn’t. My father will kill me if I don’t stay here and report back everything to him.”

“I won’t tell him,” he said.

She patted his shoulder as she brushed by him, and he caught a whiff of perfume, sharp to his nose. Her pants were tight, showing off her behind, which jutted out with the high heels she wore. She strolled across the room, “working it.” She was too much like the groupies who were always around guys like him, doing their best to tempt him away from his game, and it made him uncomfortable.

“I’ll call the team doctors once you’re in surgery,” Brooke said.

Don’t do that. “Max can handle it,” he said mildly.

“Enough with the ‘Max.’” She pouted. “I don’t know why you don’t trust me, Jon.”

He clenched his right hand. Malignant. It might be malignant.

“I’m just caffeine-deprived,” he said. “Have a coffee for me, will you?”

She frowned at him. “I think you should give me your valuables to hold. Wallet, keys, jewelry.” She eyed the chain around his neck—the medallion was tucked under his shirt and she couldn’t see it. His mother had given him that, the last Christmas she was alive. He didn’t take it off for anybody.

But damn it, Brooke had a point. The doctors would want him to strip to nothing, and anything personal belonging to a celebrity, even a local celebrity, tended to grow legs and walk off. He took out his wallet, handed it to her, then pulled his keys from his pocket and unclasped the chain from his neck. She was Max’s daughter. If she lost any of it, Max would disown her.

A smug smile on her lips, she deposited his life inside her big, gold satchel of a purse. “How about a phone?” she asked.

“Nope, didn’t bring it,” he answered, doing his best not to show his irritation.

Thankfully, she left the room then. Sashayed right on out. Her perfume lingered, so he closed his eyes and transported himself someplace safe. He’d had so much practice as a kid. Man, he was thinking about those days too often lately. His chest throbbed right along with his hand.

Another nurse came in and set him up with a hospital gown and plastic bag to hold his clothing and shoes. He smiled at her, was polite and personable, even though he wanted to lie down and grit his teeth. But if he did, it might get caught on camera, might change the public’s opinion of him and jeopardize his job.

He was up for a contract. The season was over. He’d done okay—he was a back-of-the-rotation starting pitcher and had won his last two games—but the team had gone down in flames, anyway. The radio guys and the sportswriters were on the warpath; you’d think he and his teammates had all mugged little girls and stolen their lunch money.

Yeah, he understood fan loyalty. But there was real suffering in life, and, unlike most of these media people, it seemed he understood that while they didn’t.

“It was a shame about the Captains,” the nurse remarked to him. “My son stayed up late and watched all your games this month. He was hoping you’d make it to the playoffs.”

Him and about a million other people.

“Would your boy like an autograph?” Jon asked. His finger was really goddamn killing him. Had to be psychosomatic. It knew a knife was going to be slicing right into it, down to the bone, and cutting off a tumor the size of a pistachio nut.

“He would love that.” The nurse pulled a marker out of her pocket. “Are you sure you’re offering? I don’t want to bother you.”

He hid a smile. “I know I’ve got a job most kids in Boston would do anything for.”

Under normal circumstances, there was nothing he liked better than taking care of people—making them happy.

He glanced at his bum hand. The past couple weeks wearing a baseball glove rubbing against the knuckle hadn’t helped it. Still, unless a person knew what they were looking for, the growth on the bone of his right ring finger wasn’t apparent. He’d kept it from the team doctors, wanting to finish the season and make it into the playoffs.

Playoffs hadn’t happened, but he had finished the season, pretending nothing was wrong with him. Then he’d gone for an appointment earlier in the week and...